Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Is
it Christmas season already? Time once again for holiday romance? Where did the year go?

I
received my first French kiss in front of a Christmas tree, from the
man who would later become my first lover. I can recall the scene
surprisingly well. I was fourteen, staying with my aunt over the
holidays. Although she was born Jewish and at time was a disciple of
an Indian guru, she had for some reason set up a tree in the living
room. I remember that the twinkle of the lights twining through the
branches was the only illumination. The moment has a silvery glow in
my recollection. P. encircled me with his arms and pulled me against
his chest, while planting his lips firmly on mine. I had no idea how
to react.

Then
suddenly his tongue was in my mouth. The intimacy of that sensation
shocked me. I guess I knew about French kisses, academically
speaking, but the reality was like nothing I'd imagined. I felt
excited and scared and very confused, not knowing what to do exactly,
but really, really wanting to get it right. He held me there,
exploring me, for what seemed like hours. Afterward, in my room, I
was so high I thought I'd float right off the bed. He wanted me - me,
shy and awkward as I was, with my heavy-framed glasses, plump thighs
and frizzy hair... As for P., he was as beautiful as an angel, pale
as snow, with hair like spun gold and sea-blue eyes. And he smelled
so good... that's one thing I remember, incense and sweat and
peppermint from the candy canes we'd been eating, strange, male, but
so delicious...

Once
I had dredged up that memory, my thoughts turned to other kisses,
midnight kisses as the old year slipped away and kisses under the
mistletoe.

I
found myself curious about the mistletoe kissing tradition.
Mistletoe, it turns out, has had spiritual or magical significance
for millenia. It is associated with the divine male essence, hence
potency and virility (possibly because the waxy white berries
resemble drops of semen). The plant is also entangled in a
resurrection myth.

An
old Norse tale recounts the birth of the god Baldur, son of Frigga
and Odin, the king of the gods. A prophecy regarding Baldur's
premature death led Frigga to extract a promise from every plant and
animal on earth, that they would never harm her son. Somehow,
however, she omitted the mistletoe plant and when Baldur reached
glorious manhood, Loki tricked Baldur's blind brother into slaying
him with an arrow fashioned from mistletoe. Baldur was dragged into
the underworld, but like Osiris and Persephone, was brought back to
life by the efforts of a loving woman (in this case his mother).

After
Baldur's resurrection, Frigga declared mistletoe to be thenceforth
the plant of peace. None of this, of course, explains why mistletoe
has become a license to kiss, although the links with the solstice
season are clear. Mistletoe is evergreen, symbolizing everlasting
life. Pre-Christian cultures associate midwinter with the death and
rebirth of the sun. These themes continue to echo in the Christmas
story itself.

Apparently
American author Washington Irving wrote about the mistletoe kiss
tradition as early as 1820. This suggests that it has been practiced
for a good deal longer. Most of the sources I found pointed to
Scandinavia as the original source of the custom.

However
they originated, kisses under the mistletoe retain a sense of
mischievous transgression. It doesn't matter who you are, how old you
are, to whom you're married. If someone catches you beneath that
sprig of emerald leaves and snowy berries, you must submit to his or
her kiss. To resist is considered to bring terrible luck. And who
knows what you'll discover, mouth to mouth, breath to breath? The
potent magic of the Druid's sacred plant might lead to ecstasy - or
even love.

I'll
leave you with a literary kiss under the mistletoe, from my MMF holiday tale Almost Home.

The
kiss caught her off guard.

One
moment Suzanne was standing in the doorway to Helena’s den,
scanning the occupants and wondering if she knew anyone at all at
this party. The next moment someone twirled her around and fastened a
pair of firm lips on hers. Out of instinct or habit, she closed her
eyes. The darkness heightened her other senses. Powerful arms circled
her body and pulled her against a fuzzy male chest. Her partner’s
scent rose around her, a complex mix of soap and musk, evergreen and
wood smoke. His tongue teased the seam where her lips met and she let
him enter, her self-protective reflexes dulled by his warmth and the
glass of merlot she’d downed on her arrival. His mouth tasted of
eggnog and candy canes, appropriately seasonal. He was delicious, in
fact—not just his mouth but the quiet confidence of his probing
tongue, the sculpted muscle she felt under his sweater, his bold
hands wandering across her back to her buttocks. She hadn’t enjoyed
a kiss like this in a long time.

She’d
felt chilled and tense ever since her plane touched down in frigid
Boston but now her muscles began to unknot. He was a miniature sun,
melting her, turning her languid and dreamy. She clutched at his
solid form and returned his kiss, trading heat for heat. Tropical
colours paraded behind her eyelids—fuschia, lime, peach, and
aqua—shimmering like the water in her pool back home. She even
began to perspire, her long-sleeved velvet dress suddenly too warm
for comfort.

He
pulled her full hips against his lean ones. A tell-tale lump,
wonderfully hard, pressed against her belly. Her panties and tights
dampened, too.

Normally
she would have resisted but stress and alcohol made her susceptible.
She allowed the kiss to lengthen and deepen, sinking into the pure
pleasure of it.